Out of season, it’s almost deserted, apart from the occasional dog-walker or angler digging up worms. It’s where Dad and I rode and raced and ribbed each other. Looking at this golden horseshoe of a beach, I realise it’s the last place I remember being happy and totally worry-free. We all decided it was the best place for Ed to put his plane through its paces. Mum was very sensitive when we discussed it, asking me if I felt ready to come back here. I think I must be, because I found myself whispering in Samphire’s ear that I would bring him to the bay one day, if he was very, very good, so that he could experience the gallop of his life. ‘This is an exact replica of the combat plane that took on the German Luftwaffe above southern England in the Battle of Britain in 1940,’ explained Ed, reading from his instruction leaflet as we tramped over pebbles and up and down the beach in search of exactly the right spot, with the least wind resistance for the Spitfire’s first aerial mission.
